


kansas (remembers me now)

by boykingofhell (alloftimeandspace)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Open Relationships, Post-Canon, Supernatural Season 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alloftimeandspace/pseuds/boykingofhell
Summary: Sam takes time to grieve. Set after 15.13, while we wait for more episodes.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	kansas (remembers me now)

**Author's Note:**

> _Come and lay down your shoulder  
>  Tomorrow isn't that far  
> And if we don't get older  
> Just know you were always my star_

There was nothing left to do but wait. Jack returned from the Garden with a soul but no answers, bearing Mary's death with newfound grief. Billie left them with the news of God's impending wrath, with the Ocultum that had seemingly outlived his purpose. The strange alternate Sam and Dean had thankfully left for Brazil, and the bunker was quiet again, lacking Cas's presence as was not unusual lately, lacking visitors or, thankfully, frantic calls for help. Jack was wading through re-gained emotions, eating everything in sight, binging TV the way Cas once had in his humanness. Dean had retreated to his room, mumbling something about _don't bother me unless something happens_ , and hadn't been seen since. Sam found himself falling into old habits, unwilling to be alone with his thoughts, here, facing another end of the world. He was so tired with loss, heavy with grief, quietly distant from Dean. He paced the small space of his room restlessly, found himself straying as he tried to read. Cataloging the library only held him for so long, organization the last thing on his mind despite his fascination with the remainder of Rowena's collection and the handful of discoveries procured from recent hunts. 

Eileen's laughter still haunted the bunker's kitchen. Sam had avoided it save sparing trips, strictly necessary, as few as possible. But now, it felt like the last space in the bunker that he hadn't yet worn out, secretly worried he was treading holes in the carpet elsewhere. He lingered at the threshold, feet bare on the line between the two sets of tile. Like clockwork, he could hear the warm bubble of her laughter clash against the metallic, echoing kitchen walls, trailed by the phantom clink of glasses. Guilt and something deeper burned acidic in his stomach; he shoved the feeling down, breathed, pushed himself across the threshold. 

The kitchen was empty, of course, an emptiness that felt oppressively large. His bare footsteps resounded as he crossed the floor, towards the looming fridge, the bare cabinets. Grasping in the back of his mind for a recipe he'd learned in college, cooking with Jess in their little apartment, lifetimes ago, he mindlessly assembled the ingredients from their paltry stock of food, guessing on measurements and stirring with little real focus on the task. In deft, graceful motions, he poured the batter into a greased pan and slid it into one of the Men of Letter's giant dutch ovens. He set the timer and retreated to the kitchen island, leaning forward on it as he had before, with Eileen, laughing over hangovers like teenagers. How much had they lost? He wasn't sure he even felt each loss individually, but that they ran together like an endless shower of grief. It weighed heavy on his shoulders, stooping them before their time. If he reached for it, he could feel Eileen's hands, light on his shoulders, relieving some of the ache, just for a moment.

The timer buzzed, and he pulled the pan out of the steaming oven, setting it on the island to cool enough to be cut. Brownies, Jess's recipe. Homemade. It was the things he'd seldom had that he missed now, comforts of home-baked goods and the distant memories of a home he'd never really had, but had heard tell about like a mantra. _Dean, home, Mom, home_ ; he was raised on it. Even now, he wondered, thought about the mom they'd had to lose twice, if it would have been for the better to have only lost her once. There was no good way to know, far-flung answers to a question he felt bad for asking. He cleared his head and split the slices between two plates, set the dishes in the sink, and left the kitchen behind, padding down the vacant hallway towards Dean's room. The door was closed; he hesitated and then rapped on it twice and, from somewhere inside, heard the gravel of Dean's voice mumbling a half-hearted _What?_ , which was good enough for him, younger brother even still. 

Dean was stretched out across his bed, gazing without interest at whatever was playing on the TV. He raised an eyebrow at Sam, waiting. "I uh...made brownies?" Dean looked like he might make a joke, and then didn't. Sam was grateful. He offered a plate to Dean and Dean eagerly took it, never one to turn down sweets. He gestured to the space on the bed beside him with one calloused hand, making space even as he did, and Sam sat, balancing his own plate across lap. "Eileen?" Dean's voice was softer, his gaze pointedly still on the TV. Sam shrugged, and Dean left it at that, stretching one arm over Sam's broad shoulders, rubbing gently at the ever-present knot at the base of his neck, feeling the shoulder-blade bones that indicated that he needed to get more food into Sam. He didn't say anything else, but he didn't really need to. Their aches were the same, really, weight that could be borne as long as they had one another.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! find me and request drabbles at brighteyesandblacklights.tumblr.com.


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